


Most Beloved Disciple

by cobblepologist



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blasphemy, Canon-Typical Violence, God Complex, Jewish Character, M/M, Power Dynamics, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Worship, i Mean it it is Very sacrilegious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 22:16:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17537318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobblepologist/pseuds/cobblepologist
Summary: He owes no man anything, but Jeremiah, and to Jeremiah he owes only love. He took six hours to rebuild the world. Better than seven days. Bruce counts his life in that increment now. (It hurts, when "you are at war with your true nature" hits him again. He will make Bruce in his own image, if he can.)Bruce worships Jeremiah.





	Most Beloved Disciple

Jeremiah. Messiah. It has a weird ring to it, like a hollowness in the back of the throat, like the ping ping ping in Ecco's. He follows her now, even in the cold night, deeper into the dark zone. Saint Teresa. Ecco in ecstasy, he thinks, as she cricks her neck. He knows what that is now: mortification of the flesh. An indescribable pain, an unchangeable joy. He's been doing a lot of reading, a lot of catching up. He had never been taught this, and life never taught him love, but here he is, in the heart of the cathedral. Even without Jeremiah here, it feels too intimate, as if he was stuck in his own ribcage, clamoring towards that terrible beating. He is an architect, after all.

Everything, even the church Jeremiah chooses, is a kindness unto Bruce. Adapted to the darkness. He sought out the blackest places just for him, for them. He took the light from the city for his comfort. Bruce, son of Thomas, and Jeremiah, son of-

Before he realizes it, they are here. Ecco looks at him when they reach his door; Bruce knows he must go it alone. He hates this part, the parting, as she leans in, with that voice of hers, all that pain and malady and absolute joy and says, "it is love alone that gives worth to all things." Bruce hates her, not because of Selina, or because of her place, their makeshift Mary Magdalene, but because he knows she is right. He has come to hate a great many things in this way. Bruce has had no messiahs before him. Saviors, maybe, idols. But this is the first time he's been pulled in this way, sacred heart on display, Jeremiah holding it in his hands.

(Divine retribution: It had started to make sense when Jeremiah explained, voice like milk and honey. "Sodom and Gomorrah," he had said, while Gotham burned, next to their Lazarus. There are stories that set the two of them apart, but this one they share. Bruce had witnessed the angels of his destruction, bright burning flames, screaming seraphim. The angels were gifts unto him, shrieking masses of smoke blanketing the city. Holy, holy, holy.)

The throne. In his head, he imagines seven wheels, eyes affixed towards him, around Jeremiah. There's nothing, truth be told. Just Jeremiah, as always, seated and fanning himself with his hat.

"Bruce," he says, gentle as a shout. "Most beloved disciple." In the darkness, in the great vaults of the chapel, it feels deafening. He can barely see Jeremiah, only through the lights of the votive candles, every single one bearing, wearing his face. (Jeremiah wearing Jerome's face wearing his own face.) Enlightened through himself. The warmth flickers across his real, true face, and he tilts his head just the slightest.

"Worship me," Jeremiah says. Bruce kneels. His knees are bruised from the times he's been here, their impromptu confessional, but it is an afterthought to Jeremiah's aftershave, the closeness, the dark tenor of his voice. It reverbs off of the ceiling, straight into his bones. His followers fashion relics from them, clamor to touch what is left of his tibia and tarsals, all while wearing their bullets like crosses.

"In your tongue," and Bruce is so willing to oblige, speaking unto him sympathies and morbidities. This is a language he would speak for no one else, one he was taught by the dead. Bruce knows seven different words for praise, and he sings all of them.

"With your tongue," and Bruce is so willing to oblige, allows Jeremiah to swipe his blade across his own wrist, then down across Bruce's tongue. Whatever Jeremiah is seeking inside of him, he can have it. It's a little like crucifixion. (And that's the hardest part, not thinking of Jeremiah strung up and spread out, penetrated by nails and thorns. Bruce knows if he ever was, he'd die smiling. It's a nice image.)

(Saint Bruce: He who has had his tongue cut out cannot pray, He had said, and Bruce, ever-loving, gave himself over to his savior. He prayed to a quiet city, to no one. And yet, Jeremiah had heard him, and he had bestowed upon him the blessings of friendship.)

Jeremiah is a merciful god, all fire and brimstone and. Jeremiah is a wrathful god, all sweet smiles and hushed sighs. Sacrificing his followers for Bruce. There is a thought in the back of his mind, something sacrilegious. It pricks and prods, the points of Jeremiah's canines digging into the meat of his brain. To be loved by God. To be _worshipped_  by God. He does not know who occupies what position. There is no clear hierarchy, no scripture to go by now.

"Go on," and Bruce does, hands raking at Jeremiah's pants leg.

(The Annunciation: Jeremiah, above them, holy bullet lodged into _her_ spine. Thank you for you service, Mary. Carry this with you, Mary.)

Bruce is absolved of guilt. In the old Gotham, it would be all-consuming, a festering wound, an inconvenience. He doesn't think of his parents, or Selina, or Alfred, or Gotham. He owes no man anything, but Jeremiah, and to Jeremiah he owes only love. He took six hours to rebuild the world. Better than seven days. Bruce counts his life in that increment now. (It hurts, when "you are at war with your true nature" hits him again. He will make Bruce in his own image, if he can.)

And Jeremiah so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Brother- A sacrifice, like Isaac. He Who Laughs. Unworthy. Mount Moriah on the hood of a car. These things get lost in translation, sometimes.

Bruce's hands tighten, as does his throat, Via Dolorosa. He exhales sobs, the weight of the world in each crystalline tear. Jeremiah extends a hand to his shoulder, squeezes as if in reaction to Bruce's sillent confession, saying,  _yes, I know, I know that pain._ But he doesn't, not really, not even with each cross Jeremiah bears. It is Bruce's, and Bruce's alone; the knowledge that Judas was the most beloved disciple.

"Pray," and Bruce, ever willing to oblige, does.

**Author's Note:**

> y. yeah.


End file.
